


The Ball's in Your Court

by tablemanners



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Grantaire Has Self-Esteem Issues, Grantaire Is Bad At Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Grantaire, School Transfer, grantaire gets beat up, new kid, supportive enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 21:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablemanners/pseuds/tablemanners
Summary: After suffering defeat in the last game of the season, a troubling scuffle causes Grantaire's parents to feel the need to transfer him to a better school. To Enjolras' school.aka the high school au where Grantaire is self-deprecating and Enjolras hates that he likes him. And they both play basketball.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind I've got a very vague understanding of how basketball works, so if anything is totally wrong, I'm sorry. Whoops.

Less than a minute remained in the fourth quarter of the District Championship, and they were down by one. All it would take was one measly basket to win the game, or even a free throw to tie it up, but Les Amis blocked all openings. Grantaire tracked the ball as it flew down the court, passing between his teammates as they tried to out-maneuver the other team. Montparnasse had the ball now, and Grantaire was in a good location to make a shot. They just needed a pass and a fake-out, and the game was in the bag. Only that didn’t work. The ball soared through the air at an incredible speed and Grantaire braced to catch it, but it never landed in his hands. One of the Les Amis players, a tall blond boy glistening with sweat, dived in front of him and directed the ball towards one of his own teammates, a lanky boy with ginger hair and a blinding smile. “Shit!” Grantaire gaped, clenching his fists and sprinting after the ball to the other side of the court.

If they allowed Les Amis to score, there was no coming back. They were down to thirty seconds and Grantaire grimaced as several feeble attempts by his teammates were foiled. The ball was changing possession so many times it seemed improbable that they could ever get it back to the other end of the court once more. 

“Time out!” A ref called, stepping into the chaos and shooing the boys to their coaches. Montparnasse slung an arm around Grantaire as they meandered back to the sideline, heaving and reeking of sweat.

“Twenty two seconds, and a point down. We can do this,” Montparnasse said with a (fake) grin, trying and failing to inspire Grantaire.

“We can’t get past their defense, how are we supposed to score when we can hardly keep them from scoring?” He countered, shuffling away from Montparnasse’s embrace. Montparnasse shrugged nonchalantly, then perked up when he spotted Eponine in the crowd. Grantaire suppressed a groan Montparnasse giddily waved towards her.

“Maybe if you boys paid attention to the game and not your girlfriends, we’d be doing a bit better,” coach Thenardier growled with contempt, condemning both Grantaire and Montparnasse despite Grantaire’s clear lack of involvement. “Now listen up: we’ve done this before, we can do it again. Sprint through the defense, don’t go for any long distance shots. We need one hoop and we’re in state, okay? Now get out there!”

The team broke before Les Amis, and Grantaire watched with disdain as the tall blond from earlier seemed to be rallying the entire team in some enthralling speech. He ignored the butterflies in his stomach and blamed the nerves from the game. Time ran out and the players returned to the court, all exchanging looks with each other. The general consensus was to get the ball to Grantaire, as he was one of the more precise players. It didn’t go as planned.

They couldn’t just sprint through the defense, Les Amis was too well positioned. And getting the ball to Grantaire wasn’t working too well, with Babet completely closed off and Claquesous out numbered. 15 seconds. Montparnasse had finagled the ball somehow (probably illegally, but the ref hadn’t caught it) and it was soaring at Grantaire. This time, he watched out for any pretty blonds and made sure he received the toss. 10 seconds. He was racing down the court to the goal, the rival players hot on his heels. 5 seconds. It was in the air, heading in the right direction. Almost. Then it bounced off the rim. The ball bounced off the fucking rim and Grantaire was just about ready to throw himself on the ground and scream in rage, because the clock was up and they had lost by a point. 

He looked around in disbelief. Members of Les Amis were hugging each other and grinning through their exhaustion, while his own teammates stood around, reluctant to leave the court with hollow, forlorn faces. Grantaire was seething as the teams lined up to shake hands. Somehow he was the first in line, and great, that blond kid from earlier was first on the opposing team.

“Good game, you did great,” blondie said genuinely, smiling down at Grantaire and holding out his hand.

Grantaire accepted the hand, not because he was content with where they stood, but because he was a good sport and he wasn’t going to breach conduct just because he happened to meet his new arch nemesis at the game. “Y-you too,” he choked out through his rage, unable to make eye contact and glaring at the ground. 

“What a bunch of dicks!” The statement echoed throughout the locker room, cutting off all previous bickering as the team turned to look at Grantaire, slumped against a locker with his shirt only half-off. “Did you see their smug faces? They knew the refs were totally biased towards them the whole time,” he said with a huff, clenching his fists.

Frowning, Montparnasse turned towards Grantaire with his hands resting in his pockets casually. “I thought they seemed nice enough, they said good game and all that. They were just better than us.” He shrugged before turning away from Grantaire once more, wrestling on his shirt in a very awkward attempt to not mess up his hair. 

“You’re not angry?” Grantaire asked, standing up with indignation. A scowl consumed Grantaire’s face as he stalked around the confines of the locker room, finding it impossible to sit still. “Remember that foul they called on us? That kid had tripped on his feet, none of us touched him, but they got free-throws! And that one ref seemed to really hate us, he kept blowing his whistle when we were on a roll. I don’t know about you, but I’m pissed!”

Gueulemer rolled his eyes, joining Grantaire in his frustration. “Y’know, coach is pretty sure that Les Amis’ couch is some former convict in hiding. He claims Fauchelevent isn’t his real name. Maybe you could find some hard evidence and destroy their team.”

“You believe that shit?” Grantaire asked, almost ripping his jersey as he finally yanked it off and began changing into his sweats. “I may hate them, but I’m pretty sure their coach is just a normal guy. He’s got a daughter and everything, former-convict my ass.”

“My psychology class says that guilty people always try to pin the blame on others,” Babet piped in.

Grantaire gave him a warry glare. “You don’t take psychology, you flunked last year’s social studies course. What are you getting at, you think Thenardier is some kind of criminal? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure we all already knew that.” 

That earned him a few snickers of agreement from the team before Babet continue. “Well duh. I’m saying you’re so angry at the refs because internally you know when push comes to shove it was you that didn’t make that final shot.”

Grantaire shot up immediately, eyes bulging as he met Babet’s challenge. “What the fuck.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Babet saw it as his cue to trash Grantaire even more.

“Now hold on,” Claquesuous said rather dumbly, pushing Babet away. “We all missed shots in there, should we really blame R?” 

“I think Babet made a pretty convincing point,” Brujon announced, finally speaking from the corner. “He doesn’t quite get it, because this isn’t his senior year, but this was the last season for many of us. It’s over now, and none of us were given the opportunity to make that last score. It was up to Grantaire.” A pause. “And quite frankly, I think we can all say he blew it.”

“You son of a bitch, it was just as much your fault as it was mine! Are you trying to start a fight?” Grantaire was adamant now, all frustration that had previously been aimed at the refs now targeting his teammates. What a bunch of douches. “If that’s what you want, I’ll fight you right here,” he was a good foot shorter than Brujon, but that didn’t stop the grin that formed as he stared Brujon in the eye, “That is, unless you’re scared.”

“You’re gonna regret that, R.” Brujon was smiling too, a sadistic, chilling smile that shook Grantaire to the bone. He began to raise his fists when the first hit landed square on his jaw. He didn’t hear any bones cracking, but the entire bottom of his face was engulfed in numbing pain and he felt himself staggering back.

He was ready for the next one. Brujon was big and predictable, so he was able to swerve out of the way and shove his fist into Brujon’s gut. They exchanged a flurry of punches for a solid minute before Brujon rammed his knee into Grantaire crotch, knocking the wind out of his with a punch in the gut afterwards and sending him sprawling to the floor. “The fuck,” Grantaire managed, weak and winded. 

“That was a low blow, dude,” Montparnasse said a bit fearfully, gazing down at Grantaire with pity. “You okay R?”

“What the hell is going on in here?” A rough, disjointed cry sounded, coming from Coach Thenardier himself. He was clad in his usual attire for the games, some cheesy tie and a button down shirt with a pattern that made Grantaire more nauseous than he already was. Coach’s hair was a mess, implying that he had been pulling at it quite a bit, and his lip was drawn up in a sneer. “Oh great, thanks boys. Now I’m going to have to fil out a shit ton of paperwork for assault. Just lovely. Get a move on, buses are leaving in 15.”

He was out of the locker room faster than he had entered, and everything continued as normal, as though Grantaire wasn’t lying on the ground in agony. He pulled himself into a sitting position, trying to take account for his wounds. His left eye was swelled shut, indicating he was going to have quite the shiner, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He still couldn’t feel his jaw, but that was rather minor compared to the indescribable pain in his lower abdominal and crotch. He noticed some bruises spotting up on his arms and chest, but he knew it could have been worse. Like, broken bones worse. From what he could tell, he seemed alright internally. His ankle hurt a bit, probably twisted or something of the sort, but the most bothersome thing was the blood gushing down his face. It seemed to come from everywhere: the cut on his forehead, his (hopefully not broken) nose, even his mouth (he probably bit his tongue,) and he didn’t feel like staining his shirt with it. “Have we got any tissues or napkins or something? Maybe some bandages?” Grantaire asked Montparnasse as he wiped some of the blood out of his good eye.

“Dude, why would we have any of that? I can go ask the other team, this is their school. They might have something.” Montparnasse seemed indifferent to the situation, folding his uniform carefully before he stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Scowling, Grantaire began hobbling after him. “Wait a second, you don’t need to get them,” He tried, looking for an extra shirt or something to douse the blood with. Montparnasse snorted at his lackluster attempt at chasing him and proceeded out the doorway. “Shit,” Grantaire mumbled, slouching down in defeat. He was too sore to chase after Montparnasse, the scoundrel. He felt incredibly pathetic, sitting there after losing a fight with his own team waiting for the other team that just defeated him to help him up out. 

“He’s in here?” The voice was muffled, but approaching quickly and Grantaire really didn’t want whoever was out there to get a load of him. 

“Yeah, he, uh… tripped,” Montparnasse offered as they entered the room, and with him was the blond from earlier. The taller boy had a first aid kit shoved under his arm and he stopped in his tracks when he saw Grantaire, very bloody and very bruised. 

“What the hell? He didn’t trip!” The boy exclaimed, jumping to Grantaire’s side and examining his eye, “Who the hell did this to you?”

Grantaire snorted as blond hair fell in his face. So much for personal space. This kid was way too invested in whatever sob story Grantaire was about to make up on the spot. “What do you care?” He asked, trying to sound bitter but just coming off as confused. The boy looked him in the eye, clearly troubled, and his blue eyes seemed to see right through Grantaire. Shit, he was kind of hot.

“I care because I won’t tolerate personal assault on our school campus, nor would I tolerate it anywhere else. Was it a hate crime? You need to tell me who did this, and take it up with your school for sure. You can get this kid expelled, even get a restraining order. Are you listening to me?”

“Ah, why fight the system? They’ll just deny, deny, deny until it’s blown over. I’ll be okay. Thanks for the wipes.”

The other boy let out a frustrated huff. “You’re going to disinfect your cut, right?” He asked, already opening up the first aid kit and putting some hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball.

“Um, wasn’t planning on it?” Grantaire tried standing, letting out a rather pitiful grunt before the other boy gently pushed him onto one of the benches.

“My name’s Enjolras, by the way,” he said as he brought the cotton ball to Grantaire’s forehead. He winced, earning an apology from Enjolras and an even lighter touch than before.

“Really dude, I’m fine. You don’t need to help,” He tried once more, swatting at Enjolras’ hand. 

Ignoring his protest, Enjolras continued on with his first aid. “What’s your name?” He finally asked, trying to break the silence.

“Grantaire,” he spat reluctantly, then after a second he added on: “Some people call me R.” 

“Your friends?” Enjolras asked hesitantly, finally done cleaning the cut and reaching for a bandage. Grantaire was laughing now, which turned into a bit of a wheeze when the pain in his torso reminded him of its presence.

“Not even sure I have those,” he joked, reverting back to his self-deprecating humor to save the day. It didn’t work. 

Enjolras looked appalled while applying the bandage, biting his bottom lip in concern before letting go of Grantaire’s head. “Here, let me give you my number. If you ever want someone to talk to, you can text me, or call me, or whatever makes you comfortable. If you want, I’ve also got this club, and we meet up every Thursday, and you’d be welcome, so--”

Grantaire shuffled away, standing up and letting his arms fall limply at his side. “Look, I appreciate it, but it was just a joke. I really don’t need your pity, and I don’t want to interrupt your club shenanigans or whatnot.”

Enjolras let out a frustrated grunt. “What’s your problem? Why won’t you let me help you? You don’t want me to clean your wound, you don’t want me to befriend you, you clearly don’t understand the concept of self-care—I think you need help.” Grantaire balked at that, his brow creasing in a way that was probably not very good for the cut on his forehead. “Not in a bad way,” Enjolras continued, “I’m not saying you need to go to some insane asylum, even though there’s nothing wrong with that and it shouldn’t be looked down upon because mental health is very serious, but you need some trust or something—oh my goodness I’m rambling aren’t I? Just let me give you my number.” He was determined, Grantaire had to give him that. He admired the fury in his eyes and his dedication to his cause, however meek that cause may be.

“Aright I guess, but I probably won’t message you,” Grantaire said, reaching for his phone in surrender. “Here, just key in your number.”

Enjolras took it gratefully, rapidly typing in digits with a smile. “I know, and you don’t have to, I just want to make sure I extended the option to you. Just in case I can help you with anything.”

Grantaire nodded awkwardly, fumbling as he took the phone back from the other boy. “Thanks I guess, I better go catch up with the team.” Grantaire waved dumbly, dragging his bad ankle behind him.

“I meant it, you know. When I said good game. You did great.” His voice was strong, self-assured, and sent chills down Grantaire’s back.

“Oh,” he mumbled, not quite sure if could handle turning back around to look at the handsome boy behind him, who had humbled himself to help Grantaire. “Thanks,” he finally managed, his voice breaking a little at the end. 

“I hope to hear from you soon,” Enjolras replied, anticipation in his voice. Grantaire just shrugged in response and got out of the room as fast as he could manage, before he did something stupid in front of Enjolras that made him change his mind. 

He was met with elevated bickering when he finally returned to his apartment. His mother’s pitchy, deep voice matched his father’s gruff shouts in a rather comical way. The only difference was his mother’s heavy accent. He wasn’t even sure what they were arguing about. “I’m home,” He called, hanging his jacket in the coat closet and sliding off his shoes. “What’s wrong?”

He entered the kitchen, what appeared to be the scene of the crime, and groaned. His mother, a small, stout Moroccan woman with frizzy black hair, held a frying pan defensively with red eyes and a snarl on her quivering lip. His father, taller, much skinnier, and balding, was standing a good yard away in an awkward pose of cowardice. “Grantaire!” His mother cried out in shock, staring at his face. “What happened?” She sat the frying pan down, completely forgetting about his father and patting at his face. “Are you okay?” 

He smiled meekly, ushering her away from him. The more she tried to touch his face, the more uncomfortable he became. “No, no, I’m fine. Why are you guys fighting?” 

His father looked disheveled; his jacket was in the sink, his glasses crooked, and his shoes untied but still on. “Oh, it was nothing really,” He admitted, strolling up to them and looking warily at Grantaire’s mother. 

“Yes dear, nothing, just a little spill. Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.” His mother was leaning back into his father, smiling up at him with an embarrassed quirk in her eyes. “Did you get hurt in the game?” She asked, turning her attention back to Grantaire.

Grantaire sighed, stifling a yawn and swatting her hand away again. “Something like that,” he decided. His father nodded, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly before Grantaire left the room. 

He trudged through the dirty laundry strewn across his floor and collapsed on his bed, grimacing when his bruised torso flared up in pain. “Shit,” he grumbled, working off his shirt and struggling due to the stiffness in his arms. Once he managed to drag it off of him, he examined his torso, vile rising in his throat. It looked like he lived in an abusive home or something, deep purples decorated his rib cage and small splatters of blood were smeared over his chest. 

There was as knock on his door—his dad, presumably. His mother always barged in with a rushed “You inside?” in her partially broken English. “Come in,” he called, drawing his sheets up to cover the worst of it.

“I brought you a cold pack,” his father said, inching open the door and smiling in nervously. “For your eye.” He approached Grantaire’s bedside and laid it next to him. He stood there for a minute, silent as his eyes searched Grantaire for an answer. “This wasn’t because you’re… gay, was it?” His father tried, looking mildly uncomfortable. He still wasn’t used to Grantaire’s involvement in LGBT+ affairs, but tried to be understanding. 

“Bi,” Grantaire corrected, “And no, it wasn’t. Thanks for asking, though.”

His father nodded back and shot Grantaire a thumbs up before leaving the room. He could hear the hushed voices of his parents outside of his door. They were freaked out.

Grantaire rolled over, placing the cold pack on his eye and wincing at contact. He was emotionally and physically exhausted, so he figured he’d be out in no time, but he found himself fixated on the boy from earlier. Enjolras. His mind would not stop spinning, nagging thoughts keeping him awake as the clock counted the early hours of the morning. He dozed off around 3, and was jerked back awake by his 7 am alarm. He got a solid four hours of sleep, which was actually pretty good compared to his normal sleep routine. 

After throwing on a sweatshirt and jeans, Grantaire fiddled through the kitchen, fixing himself a bowl of some off brand, whole-grain cereal his father had found at some weird vegan store. He grabbed a spoon and slouched back in one of the chairs next to the counter before he noticed his mother and father watching him and speaking in hushed murmurs. “What’s up?” Grantaire asked them rather defensively. 

“Ah!” His mother exclaimed in surprise, as if she hadn’t noticed Grantaire sitting in the middle of the room. “Grantaire, good morning! Can we talk to you?” She smiled cheerily, settling down next to Grantaire and grasping his father’s hand. 

Grantaire shrugged, nodding in compliance and setting his spoon down. “We, uh, received an email from the school,” his father said nervously, gaging Grantaire for a reaction. “They said you were in a fight.”

Grantaire began to speak, but his mother cut him off. “Baby, we are worried about you. We don’t want you hurt, so we decided you should transfer schools.”

His father continued to back her up, “There is a school within the district, very nice, very successful, great students—we know you’ll love it.”

Grantaire turned away from them. “Look, I’m not super attached to my school or anything, but won’t this just cause excess trouble? If it really worth all the paper work and shit? What school did you have in mind anyway? Is it private or something?”

His mother cooed, petting his hair and grabbing his face again. “Baby, anything to help you is worth the trouble. The school is Les Amis, right across the river? I’m sure you’ve heard of them, yes?”

Grantaire bristles, retracting from his mom with a scrutinizing gaze. “Are you joking?” His mother’s wide eyes and confused expression answered his question. “Les Amis High, that’s the school we competed against last night. They beat us.” 

His mother exhaled, looking relieved and smiling even broader. “There, it is settled. They have good sports program, yes? And friendly opponents I’m sure. I hear they have an art program too, isn’t that excellent?” 

His father was pulling some paper out of his bag, laying it down in front of Grantaire. “We printed out the forms we need for a transfer. You just need to give these to your guidance counselor today and then on Monday you can start at your new school!”

He sighed. “Isn’t this a little excessive? I mean, people get beat up. So what? I’m fine.”

His mother shook her head. “No. Not fine. You are transferring, Grantaire, so get those papers signed. Now have a nice day!” She scuttled out of the room, humming to herself. His father gave him a pat on the shoulder and then rushed off to follow her, leaving Grantaire with a queasy, anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of actually seeing Enjolras again, or the thought of being subjugated to a whole new foreign environment that would make him feel immensely lonely and like more of an outsider than he already was. He eyed the paper in his hands, then reluctantly made his way out the front door to survive his last day at his crummy high school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire transfers! Goodbye old life, hello anxiety!

“Transferring?” Eponine asked, nearly spitting out her lunch as her jaw went slack. She glared, her heavy eye-makeup making it all the more intense. “Who the hell am I gonna hang with?” Her voice was bitter with contempt, but he could feel the softer side of the question, the vulnerable fear and loneliness she was trying to hide.

Grantaire shrugged. “Who the fuck am I gonna hang with at that preppy school? Besides, you’ve always got my number, so nothing will really change except lunch.”

Eponine pouted, pulling at her scraggly brown hair and smudging her makeup. Grantaire did feel guilty leaving Eponine, after all she was a bit of a character. She looked younger than she was, thin and waifish and usually underfed, so she always layered up on heavy makeup to try to appear older. Dark lipsticks, intense contouring, heavy eyeshadow and extra eyeliner both above and below her eyes. It contrasted heavily with the hand-me-down t-shirts she wore along with the oversized jeans from Goodwill. And outside of school, her little brother was practically attached at the hip, somehow always present and bitching to her and anyone else who would listen. Her vulgar language, dressing habits and family relations made many other students cautious, even in a public school as shitty as theirs. 

“Besides,” Grantaire continued, “I don’t know how legit this paperwork is. I don’t even know if they’ve contacted Les Amis High School, so the chances of me actually transferring? I think they’re fairly low, but then again how should I know? It can’t be that easy to go here one day and then transfer the next.”

“Mmhm.” She grunted through her full mouth, refusing to look Grantaire in the eye. 

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” He tried, setting down his own sandwich and pleading with Eponine. “I’m sure Montparnasse would love to hang out with you during lunch if you really need someone.”

“And drool all over me? No thanks.”

Another sigh. “Maybe that’s why I’m your only friend, ‘cause you’re so selective.”

She looked back up, an affectionate smirk on her face. “I’m gonna miss you, you piece of shit,” she told him, speaking with her mouth full. Grantaire felt a smile grow on his face despite knowing the awkward tender understanding between the two of them would soon be broken.

“I’ll miss you too, Ep.” 

The rest of the school day went relatively quickly. He slept in math and faked his way through history, knowing that if he actually transferred, his actions couldn’t really be accounted for. His final period, studio art, was a bit more sentimental. His teacher, a woman who had clearly been on too many drugs and didn’t really grasp the concept of discipline, ran her class like some messed up study hall. Grantaire would miss the pure chaos and creativity rampant in the room. No doubt there would be no teachers like her in Les Amis.

She helped him get his portfolio together for when he transferred by pinpointing her favorite works of his and forcefully shoving them into his makeshift cardboard portfolio. “Don’t you dare leave these here, Grantaire,” she instructed, placing the oversized folder in Grantaire’s hands. “Also, don’t screw up in your new school, hun.”

The end of the school day was hectic due to the fact that it was Friday. Although the halls usually emptied especially quickly at the end of the week, the first few minutes after the final bell rang were hell. Bodies squeezed into every crevice of the hall, shoving, shouting and cursing as they collided with their peers. Others blocked the hall, couples practically humping each other as they sucked face like there was no tomorrow while jocks shoved geeks into lockers (yes, literally.) 

Grantaire squeezed his way through the overcrowded halls (which had to be some form of a fire hazard) and reached the guidance counselor, transfer papers in hand as he knocked on the door. “Grantaire?” A tall woman asked, probably in her late 30’s with bright red glasses and thinning hair.

“Yes?” He responded, wary that she knew his name. “I’ve got some papers I need the counselor to sign?”

“Yes, your parents called,” she said while pursing her lips and holding a hand out. “I’ll take care of them and fax them to… Les Amis High, was it? You can go.”

Grantaire handed them over and fled, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a new sense of dread washing over him. He was actually about to transfer halfway through his junior year. Shit. 

His parents were waiting when he got home, eager to speak with him about it. “You give papers to councilor?” His mother was staring him down with such ferocity he wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Yeah?” This earned Grantaire a sigh of relief as his mother leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“You go early on Monday, so they can show you around the school.”

And he did. It was 7:30 am on Monday morning and he sat outside the school, waiting for the doors to open. He had brought his backpack with some notebooks and pencils, but other than that he was in no way prepared to navigate an entirely new school with entirely new people. He’d probably recognize some of their basketball team, but even then he felt like a fish out of water. It wasn’t like he knew them, and he’d never texted Enjolras, so they were essentially strangers. 

He heard a click and turned to see the doors opening up, a stout man with broad shoulders waving him in. His hair was greying and there was a large, bushy mustache complimenting his peculiar sideburns. “I’m Mr. Javert, the vice-principal. I take it you’re our new student?”

Grantaire nodded, accepting the handshake and stumbling into the warm building. It was nice. A lot nicer than his old school. New carpets, working lights, clean tables—it didn’t even smell like B.O. and axe. “This is your schedule, we tried our best to match up the courses you were taking to what we offer here. There’s a student who volunteered to walk you around the school, he’s in the main office.”

The main office was a bit stuffier than the halls, dimmer with papers skewed across the table tops. A well-dressed boy with glasses and short dark hair coiled in tight curls greeted him, holding a hand out and smiling. “Nice to meet you, I’m Combeferre.” Grantaire hesitated a second, tempted to wipe his hands off on his pants due to the fear that they were sweaty. If he were to do that, it would be even more awkward and he’d be even grosser, so he held out a shaky hand and gave his name. Combeferre didn’t seem very fond of Mr. Javert, avoiding eye contact with the man and ushering Grantaire out at an alarming rate. 

“Javert’s loony,” he told Grantaire in a hushed voice, a light smile on his face. “He takes discipline to a whole other level.”

“Well, shit,” Grantaire said before he had time to process what he was saying and who he was talking to. “I mean, uh,” he stammered, watching Combeferre and praying he wouldn’t be one of those cussing Nazis who wouldn’t tolerate the utterance of any obscenity. 

Combeferre just looked at him quizzically, as if trying to size him up. “This is the gym,” he offered, pointing to the court Grantaire recognized all too well. Not too far off was the locker room he got beat up in. “You play any sports?”

“Funny story, actually,” he said, clenching his hands in his pockets and trying his best not to glare at the gym. “I was here last week-- I was on the basketball team at my old school-- and we got beat on that court.” He left out the part about him getting beat up by his teammate afterwards. 

Combeferre’s face was scrunched up, unsure of what to say. Grantaire could tell he didn’t want to make him feel bad about their loss, but he clearly wanted to gloat about their sports program. After what felt like a minute of silence, Combeferre directed him to a bulletin board a few yards away. “If you want, you can sign up for the basketball team’s conditioning, because the season is just about over and they’ll be starting back up with that soon. At least, I think. I’ll have to ask Enjolras, he’s the captain.”

Grantaire perked up at the name, remembering the soft blond locks and bright blue eyes. “You know him?” He heard himself asking.

A nod from Combeferre, who was thankfully too absorbed in whatever he had been previously going on about to notice the sudden interest Grantaire had developed for their talk. “Yeah, he’s one of my closest friend. If you’re interested in extracurriculars, we’ve got this club that meets up twice a week. It’s like a protest club, but also kinda a safeplace? It’s hard to explain. We meet tomorrow, you should totally come.”

Combeferre sounded genuine, like he wasn’t just saying it to save face, and Grantaire felt turmoil begin to build up inside of him. One side of him, the practical one, urged him to take Combeferre up on the offer. It was a good way to make friends, and he had no reason not to. The other, less practical side of him scorned it. They’d hate him, he’d embarrass himself or say something stupid, and Enjolras would be there. He’d nearly forgotten about likelihood of actually running into Enjolras here, at his school. Grantaire noticed he’d been silent for too long when Combeferre cleared his throat. “Oh, um, I’ll think about it,” he mumbled, trying to calm his nerves.

Combeferre didn’t seem to mind, reassuring him that there were plenty of clubs always looking for new members. Once he’d shown him around the cafeteria, gym, guidance councilor’s and the office, Combeferre examined his schedule. 

“I’ve got 3rd and 5th with you,” he said gleefully, nodding along as he browsed the rest of the schedule. “Okay, we’ll start by finding first period. Yours is on the second floor, there are four staircases at different corners of the building.” Grantaire followed Combeferre to a Mr. Rearden’s room, peering in the narrow window and trying to see what the room was like. 

They walked through the rest of his schedule, then Combeferre showed him where all the bathrooms were before concluding the tour. “There’s still another ten minutes until class starts, so you could go sit in your first period, or you could stay with me if you want. My friends are usually somewhere in the history wing.”

And so Grantaire was presented with another choice. Would it be rude to close himself off and accept a lonely rest of the year, or should he actually put forth effort and meet new people? Combeferre seemed like a nice kid, a bit of a prep, but his friends couldn’t be all that bad. “Sure, yeah. I mean, it’d be cool to meet some people. You know, first day and all.”

Combeferre smiled, looking proud of himself and beckoning Grantaire to follow him once more. He led him to a room on the first floor with loud bickering coming out of it. Inside, a rather large, rag-tag group of people sat in a circle and spoke amongst each other, all smiling and teasing. One boy, dressed in a patterned button down and bright yellow pants, jumped up when he saw Combeferre. “Ferre’s back, y’all!” He cried excitedly, pumping his fists into the air and hooting. The teacher, an old man huddled over his desk, shushed them as he clacked away on his computer. “Ferre’s back!” The boy whisper-shouted this time, smiling giddily at Combeferre.

“Hey Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said with a disheveled smile. “Everyone, this is Grantaire. He just transferred here today.”

The group started talking, everyone at once, and Grantaire finally took them in. To his relief, he didn’t see Enjolras, but he recognized a few faces. Many of them must have been on the basketball team.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” A lanky boy with shaggy red hair asked, scratching his chin and scrunching his eyes. “I swear I’ve seen you before, sorry, I can’t recall when….”

Grantaire sat himself down next to Combeferre, drawing his shoulders in and feeling like an intruder. "Do you play basketball?” He asked, somewhat flabbergasted by the new environment.

The boy jumped up in realization, piecing the puzzle together. “Oh shit, are you the one Enjolras told us about? That got beat up?”

Silence.

“Feuilly, what the fuck?” The voice came from the other side of the room. Another boy, decked out in pastels with what appeared to be a floral tattoo on his forearm, had spoken up. “You’re going to make him uncomfortable.”

Grantaire allowed himself to laugh, relaxing and shaking his head. “Dude, I’m fine. Yeah, I got beat up, but if I seem uptight it’s not ‘cause of that. I just suck in new environments. Although I’d rather not gloat about how I was ground to a pulp.”

This earned him a chorus of laughter from the group, along with approving muttering exchanged in light whispers. “How about you guys all introduce yourself?” Combeferre butted in, nodding and making expressive hand gestures to prompt them into politeness. 

The guy with the tattoo sat up taller, eager to start. “I’m Jehan, salutations.” Several group members groaned at that while others chuckled at the inside joke Grantaire was oblivious to.

The redhead went next: “I’m Feuilly, but you probably guessed that.”

“Bahorel,” said a larger fellow, whom Grantaire would have assumed was an adult if he hadn’t been in cahoots with the rest of the group. 

The next guy, who appeared to be bald but actually had a very unfortunate short, thin buzcut, waved awkwardly and ended up knocking his thermos off the desk beside him. “Oh shit—Whoops, haha. I’m Bossuet.” More collective groans, belonging to those who had experienced too much of Bossuet’s bad luck first hand.

The next, thin and clearly very eccentric, introduced himself as “Joly.” He was drenched in an oversized sweater, vomit green with ugly patterns on it, and shot Grantaire finger-guns. 

One of the only girls amongst them spoke up next. “I’m Cosette,” she said, her voice high and light. She sounded like a bird. She was short, with long blonde hair and a floral blouse.

Next to her was a giddy young lad with tousled brown hair and an array of freckles. “I’m Marius, Marius Pontmercy.” He smiled nervously, probably more nervous than Grantaire, and tapped his foot at a fast tempo. 

The other girl, Musichetta, had her foot propped up on Joly’s backpack and looked pretty badass. Her dark hair was pulled up in a poorly secured ponytail, and she wore combat boots with her black skinny jeans. Despite the edgy style, she smiled warmly and welcomed Grantaire.

Finally, Courfeyrac introduced himself, then immediately asked Grantaire his Hogwarts House. When he told them he wasn’t really sure, the whole group began to have a fit, but they were silenced by the warning bell. “Bye, Grantaire!” Jehan said first, grabbing his bag and skipping out of the room.

“I’m not going to remember anyone’s names,” Grantaire mumbled to Combeferre worriedly, looking back at the group as they dispersed.

“No one expects you to, you’ll be fine. Do you want my number?” Much like Enjolras, Combeferre didn’t give him much a choice. “I’ll write it down. Just message me if you need anything or have any questions.” He scrawled down a series of numbers and pressed it into Grantaire’s hand, smiling at him reassuringly. “You’ll be fine,” He repeated, “Good luck.”

He didn’t have any trouble finding his first period thanks to Combeferre’s incredibly informative tour, and he found a seat in the back to hide in. His first period was pre-cal, which sucked, and he planned to go unnoticed. His teacher did not share that plan. Apparently, he was one of those guys who made you get up in front of the whole class and introduce yourself. 

“Happy Monday, class! Exciting news! We’ve got a new student!” All heads turned back to Grantaire, staring at him in curiosity. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

That’s when Grantaire was kindly reminded of his anxiety. He didn’t go to the front of the room, in fact he didn’t even stand. He lifted a hand and waved. “Hi, I’m Grantaire.” He was met with silence.

The teacher faltered for a second, trying to think of something “cool” to say, then picked up where he left off. “Okay, moving on. Please get out your notes from yesterday and we’ll do some more practice problems to get started. Grady, just let me know if we’re doing anything you haven’t learned and I’ll help you out.” 

Did he just call Grantaire Grady? To be fair, Grantaire wasn’t sure what the teacher’s name was. He peeked at his schedule: Joshua Rearden. He could remember that.

Then Mr. Reardon started talking and nothing made sense. It was like he was speaking a foreign language. Any normal student would have asked him for help, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to raise his hands. He wasn’t sure if it was his anxiety, or his self-destructive tendencies, but he sat in class dumbfounded for the next 50 minutes. 

The bell rang, jarring Grantaire out of his daze. He looked at his schedule, groaning in dismay. He trudged to physics, which was on the opposite side of the school, in defeat. Although it was technically a science credit, there was no doubt physics was essentially another math class with more word problems. Two math based courses at the start of the day. Splendid. 

He spotted two familiar faces waving him over enthusiastically. He waved back, trying his best to recall their names, but there had been so many of them. “Grantaire! How was first period?” The smaller boy asked, grinning and clearing off a spare desk for Grantaire to sit in.

“It was shit,” Grantaire said honestly, settling down in the chair and slinging his backpack onto the ground. He stared at the two some more, searching his brain for some friendly reminder. The larger one, he knew his name started with a B… it wasn’t Bossuet, that was the bald one. He continued to stare with indignation, and the two noticed and stared back.

“Yes?” The larger guy asked, leaning in closer. “What is it?”

Grantaire panicked, clenching his pants in his fist and avoiding eye contact. “Um, I don’t really… remember your names. Sorry.”

The smaller boy guffawed , slapping his knee and clinging onto the larger man. “Oh! I thought I had something on my face or something. It’s fine, you just met us like, and hour ago. No biggie.” He held out a hand again, grinning cheekily. “Joly, or Jollly. Actually, I respond to a lot of names.”

Grantaire shook the hand, nodding and cataloging the name. “And I’m Bahorel,” the big guy said. 

Grantaire grinned. At least he was right that it started with a B. “Thanks guys,” he said, getting out a sheet of paper. “Class evaluation please: good teacher, bad teacher? Easy class, impossible class?”

“Graffi is the shit,” Joly told him, Bahorel nodding along with his words. “You’ll love her. Class is pretty easy. It’s just plugging numbers into formulas. I thank god every day that I’m not in AP Physics, Enjolras says that class is impossible.” 

Another mention of Enjolras. So he was smart, in AP courses. Grantaire was a bit relieved, knowing he probably wouldn’t have to encounter him in any of his classes. Grantaire wasn’t dumb or anything, but he didn’t really put forth his best effort, so his grades were… lacking. 

Mrs. Graffi didn’t make Grantaire get up in front of the class, thank goodness, and taught in a simple, interesting way that got the students fairly involved with the work. She seemed alright, already much better than Rearden. That class passed by a lot faster than first period and he could actually do some of the work. So maybe this place wouldn’t be all that bad. Joly and Bahorel exchanged bad puns most of the class period, making sure to include Grantaire in their humorous endeavors. This time the bell didn’t startle Grantaire, and he didn’t feel quite as dead as he made his way to third. At least he knew Combeferre would be there, so he’d know someone. 

He quickly learned the French teacher refused to speak any English, and he was subjected to utter confusion as Mr. Sachdeva, or “Monsieur S,” as he had the students call him, introduced Grataire to the class. He spotted Combeferre immediately, sitting with some of the other people from before. He remembered Courfeyrac’s name, as well as Cosette’s, but he couldn’t recall the last one. It was the red haired guy.

Combeferre beckoned him over, then leaned over and whispered the names of the others. Feuilly. The other guy was Feuilly. “Thanks,” Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, surrounded by friendly people who were eager to help him out. 

He should have known the day was going too well. When he walked into English III, the faint smile he had worn quickly faded. He knew no one, and the class seemed to sneer at him. They were ridiculing him. Two boys, jocks no doubt, snickered and called him a “fag.” Grantaire tensed, feeling isolated. And feeling like total shit. 

The teacher walked in, calming them down with a wave of his hand. Mr. Young paid no attention to the vulgar terms thrown at Grantaire, in fact he didn’t even say hi to Grantaire, he just spat out that today would be a “reading day” and lounged behind his desk. 

The two boys, wearing football jerseys (the football season had ended months ago, what the hell?) and flexing their most-likely-steroid-induced muscles stopped harassing the girl next to them and turned to Grantaire. “And who the fuck are you?” The first asked, trying to look intimidating by puffing his chest out.

“Whoa, calm down there Mr. Testosterone, what’s your problem?” He asked, feeling seriously irked.

The other one spoke up, cracking his knuckles. “We just want to make sure you understand who’s in charge here.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow inquisitively, leaning in closer to them. “The teacher?” He asked in mock interest, wide eyed. “For a second I thought you were gonna say you guys, but that’s the lamest, most stereotypical teen-drama thing to do. And I know you manly men don’t watch teen dramas.” 

The first one snorted angrily, shaking his head. “Don’t try anything cute,” he said bitterly.

Grantaire gulped, glancing at the clock. Fourth period was their lunch period, and he was stuck with these sick fucks. “I’m not? In fact, I’m 100% sure you guys started this conversation. If you wanted to be friends so much, you couldn’t have asked.”

“Just shut up, fag.”

Grantaire knew his face was probably red from anger, no doubt, and he clenched his fists, trying to release some of his anger. The boys behind him with laughing now, having a field day at Grantaire’s expense. He’d say something, how shitty it was to use such a fucked up insult, or how fragile their masculinity was, but that wasn’t who he was. He could try to talk back with his sarcasm and witty comments, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance. They were clearly well off, egotistical and everything. So Grantaire kept his back to them, withstanding another thirsty minutes of taunts until they were released for lunch. It felt like high school again.

He sat alone at lunch, pitifully nibbling on his turkey sandwich and thinking of Eponine, just a few dozen miles away, doing the exact same thing. So he accepted his fate and scraped through fourth, having little hope for the future.

In his fifth period, US History, a tall Asian woman conducted the class with such precision Grantaire was astounded. Her name was Ms. Cheong, and Grantaire soon realized Combeferre was a teacher’s pet. Joly, who was also in History, talked smack about Combeferre as he volunteered to take the attendance down to the office. Grantaire rolled his eyes, recalling how Combeferre had been the one to volunteer to show Grantaire around the school. “He’s the preppiest of us all,” Joly explained, sharing his notes with Grantaire and shrugging. “But we love him.”

Grantaire was able to tolerate History thanks to his two new acquaintances (he wasn’t sure if he could call them his friends yet) and awaited his art class with fear and anticipation. He knew it would be a lot more structured than last year, but prayed his teacher would be good and allow room for creativity. There was nothing worse than a shitty art class.

The 3D Studio art room was larger than a normal classroom, and Grantaire was amazed by all the supplies and tools they had. Hell, there were two kilns. It was a smaller class too, with less than fifteen people spread out and already pulling out their projects. Grantaire stared, trying to pinpoint the teacher. He jumped as a hand slapped his back, turning to find a short man with jet black hair slicked back and an apron on. “Hey Grantaire, I’m the 3D art teacher, Mr. Garcia. Let me fill you in on the course requirements.” He seemed decent, listing off projects and when they were due. He exempted Grantaire for every 1st semester project and even helped him to brainstorm what project he should start on. 

By then the day was essentially over. He had study hall for seventh, and fully intended on napping. He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted a head full of golden curls speaking to the teacher, Ms. Bridgit. It was Enjolras.

Enjolras turned, heading off to a desk and pulling out a textbook. Grantaire was broken. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, all he could do was watch in a weird combination of dismay and awe as Feuilly, apparently in the same study hall as them, grabbed Enjolras’s attention and pointed Grantaire out. A look of recognition and something else flashed across Enjolras’s face, now watching Grantaire with intrigue. Grantaire felt numb. Why was he overreacting? What was wrong with him? Oh yeah, that’s right. Anxiety.

He shuffled towards Feuilly and Enjolras after Feuilly waved him over, welcoming him with an earnest smile. “Your cut looks a lot better,” Enjolras remarked, nodding to the faint scar where Brujon had bashed his brains in. 

Grantaire heard himself giggling almost uncontrollably, scorning himself and trying to regain some composure. “Well, you did a good job disinfecting it.” His heartrate had noticeably accelerated and he felt a light layer of perspiration cover his forehead. Shit.

“Did you transfer because of the assault?” Enjolras asked in a concerned tone.

Grantaire paused, looking down at his hands awkwardly. “Um, yeah,” he admitted, feeling incredibly pitiful at that moment. 

Enjolras looked content with that, turning from Grantaire and fishing some papers out of his backpack. “I’m glad,” he added after a few seconds of silence. Another pause. “I mean, not that you got beat up, but glad you took action and were transferred somewhere that’s hopefully a bit more tolerant and accepting. If you’re interested, there’s a club meeting tomorrow afterschool promoting tolerance and political protest. We write letters to our representatives and stuff, and it’s a safe place for people who are discriminated against. Our main focuses are racial minorities, women’s rights, and the LGBT+ community. Not that you have to be gay or anything to be in it, I mean, are you gay? Or, sorry, that’s kind of personal. Disregard that.”

“Wow, real smooth,” Feuilly whispered to Enjolras, who had developed a faint blush. Of course, Grantaire was oblivious to it all, staring at his hands in panic.

“Well, I am gay, or bi or something, so… I mean, I don’t know. Combeferre was telling me about your all’s club, but I’m not much of a political person, I don’t care that much about all that hubbub. It doesn’t really affect me.” Grantaire had a feeling he shouldn’t have added in that last part, but he did for some reason, either to isolate himself or be honest with Enjolras that he was bound to let him down. 

Feuilly raised his eyebrows, scooting down a seat and silently wishing Grantaire luck. 

“It doesn’t affect you?” Enjolras asked, obviously straining to keep his voice low. “How does it not affect you? Especially when your community is discriminated against!”

“I’m not really part of a community, I’m just me. Just because I’m gay or something doesn’t mean I have to associate with all the politically correct gay protestors doing their thing. They’ve got it covered.” 

Enjolras stared at him for a second, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. He couldn’t deny Grantaire’s right to individuality, but he had to do something. “Don’t you think it’s a little selfish to remain ignorant to all this and let a corrupt justice system ruin lives?”

Grantaire huffed, crossing his arms. “Oh, so now I’m selfish? Maybe being ignorant is better than holding onto impossible dreams, excuse me for living.” 

Enjolras was far from finished. “As citizens of this country, we have a responsibility to hold our government to a higher standard than it is at right now. Each person should be invested, openly fighting for their rights. Laying down and doing nothing is deplorable, not that you are deplorable, but… surely you care a little? Families are being torn apart due to unjust deportations, ordinary people are being murdered by our law enforcement, kids face years of torment due to their differences and nothing is done about it! Don’t tell me none of this makes you the least bit mad.”

Grantaire was cursing at himself, upset he had chosen to dis what Enjolras was most passionate about. “I don’t like what’s going on, but I can’t do anything about it, so what’s the point?”

Enjolras looked angry, sad, disappointed, and incredibly strained at that moment. His eyes were boring into Grantaire’s head, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. “Were you not listening to anything I said?”

There was a tapping behind them, and both turned to see Ms. Bridget with a scowl on her round face. “Boys, I allow talking, but I must ask you all to keep it down, you’re distracting the other students.” Enjolras apologized immediately, a nervous smile on his face as she shook her head and chuckled. “Just be quiet.”

Feuilly moved back closer, teasing Enjolras for getting scolded. Enjolras didn’t speak much to Grantaire for the rest of the study hall, and Grantaire couldn’t focus on anything. The bell rang, and Enjolras stood up, hesitating before he turned to Grantaire. “I’d really appreciate it if you came to our meeting tomorrow.”

Miraculously, Grantaire nodded and replied: “I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weeks update is a few days early due to the Holiday Festivities coming up. I plan on updating weekly (hopefully consistently) and love receiving feedback from you guys! Thanks so much for reading! There'll be more interaction with Enjolras in the next chapter, this was sorta a transition chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Friends of the ABC have their first meeting with Grantaire (who's kinda a little shit!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras may be referred to as Enchilada in this chapter

The meeting room was cramped, especially with everyone trying to fit at one table. Grantaire arrived unnoticed, maneuvering towards the back of the room and seating himself in a corner. Enjolras and Combeferre stood in the front, hunched over some paperwork and quietly arguing in the minutes before the meeting officially began.

“Grantaire, you came!” Joly said, turning around in his chair and nearly falling out. “So, what do you think of Enjolras? He’s great, isn’t he?”

Grantaire shrugged, fiddling through his backpack to find something to occupy his time with. He finally found a lifeline, his sketchbook, and tucked his feet underneath the legs. “Yeah,” he replied to Joly rather shakily. “Seems very passionate.”

Joly laughed at that, nodding and actually leaving his seat to walk over to Grantaire. “Oh yeah man, he sure is, but don’t let that intimidate you.” The smaller boy settled next to Grantaire in the back, notifying Musichetta and Bossuet of his position. The two leapt up as well, surrounding Grantaire and chatting loudly. 

“Time to shut up guys!” A shrill voice (Courfeyrac’s) called from the center of the room, standing on a table. 

Combeferre thanked him, although he sounded a bit exasperated as he did so. “Thanks for coming, everyone. We’ve got several things to discuss on our agenda today, so let’s get started.” That was when Grantaire decided to zone out. Something else had caught his attention, or rather someone else. Enjolras sat in the front while Combeferre presented his topics, watching attentively and nodding at certain parts. Enjolras was wearing red today, and he was beautiful. Grantaire was a bit on edge the whole time, jerking his head away whenever Enjolras’ gaze was even remotely near him. Of course it was impossible for Joly not to notice, but he didn’t say anything about it. 

Then Enjolras stood, approaching the center of the room with a few index cards and a determined look on his face. Grantaire’s heart was on fire. “Last week we discussed the lack of safe-sex education in public schools, and I’d like to read you all the response we got back from the superintendent. It was… disappointing.”

Grantaire refrained from chuckling like a middle schooler at the mention of sex, much to his surprise. Enjolras began reading the response, gaining groans from his peers. “So I compiled a list of statistics to send to him. First of all, we need to address how although some religions abstain from sex until marriage, not all do, therefore basing his argument around that is closeminded and will not help all students.”

Several people began raising their hands, presenting their own facts and opinions on the matter. Combeferre acted as the scribe, jotting down points and suggestions at a rapid pace.

“You sure you’re not just doing this for the free condoms they pass out after the talk?” Grantaire joked from the back, smirking as the conversation halted. 

Enjolras’ face grew cold, a frown appearing instantaneously. “I’m sorry, what?”

Grantaire didn’t falter. “Of all the things to be talking about, y’all seem fixated on sex. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Everyone could use some free condoms.”

Enjolras glared at him, wrinkling up his notecards as he clenched his hands. “Teen pregnancies and STDs are far too common, and the school system is doing nothing to help educate and prevent this. This is not some perverted way to get free condoms, we are trying to improve the curriculum and include helpful information so teens don’t make mistakes they’ll regret in the future. If that’s what you’re taking away from this, maybe you shouldn’t be here. Now if you’re going to contribute, please make it helpful.” Grantaire knew he shouldn’t like the negative attention as much as he did, but with Enjolras focused entirely on him, butterflies began to form in his stomach. 

“Okay then, Mr. safe sex. Good to know.”

Sadly, Enjolras had moved on and was no longer paying attention to Grantaire. They continued to draft paragraphs for their retort to the superintendent, going around the room for suggestions and intentionally skipping over Grantaire. Enjolras eventually stepped down from the center of the room and let Courfeyrac take his place.

“So, onto the fun stuff,” he said loudly, projecting his voice in a way that was incredibly unnecessary. “Updates on LGBT inclusive prom! We’ve had some success swaying the minds of the cheerleading team and student council, who are funding it, but the pta is still against us. We’ve got the petition going around the school, which, by the way, already has over 200 signatures! And we’ve already sent oodles of letters to the pta.” Grantaire chuckled at Courfeyrac’s use of the word ‘oodles.’ “So, we need to brainstorm some more. What can we do to get the pta to support LGBT inclusive prom?”

Cosette stood up, turning to address the room. “I think we need to attack them from a legal standpoint. Their biggest argument is their homophobia, which stems from their religions. They can’t apply religious rules on public schooling, so their argument is invalid and they have to allow it.”

Jehan nodded. “Yes, but you know how they’ll disregard that. It’s ‘different’ and makes other students ‘uncomfortable.’ I think we need a school statement from the class presidents stating that they support us, and the petition needs more coverage. “

The conversation filtered through the room, once again landing on Grantaire. Enjolras was about to talk over him when Grantaire decided to get his two cents in. “Fuck the approval of the pta, why should we have their permission to have a ‘tolerant’ prom? Just bypass all this petition shit and do it.”

Many members seemed to approve of his standpoint, especially Bahorel, who jumped up and shouted “fuck yeah R!” 

“R?” Marius asked, frowning at Bahorel.

“R, like capital R, like Grande R, aka Grantaire. He’s a pun genius, bro,” Bahorel explained, shooting Grantaire a thumbs up for sharing his nickname with him.

“Oh, like how Enjolras went with ABC instead of abaisses?”

“Shit man!” Bahorel exclaimed as he slammed his fists into the table, “They should get married. The ultimate pun duo.”

Enjolras was still frowning at Grantaire though, sending a little thrill through him. “With the approval of the pta, we would be able to serve as a representation of a functioning, all-inclusive school board. Even though we could find a way to do it without them, the idea of having the pta on our side is monumental. Changing these people’s points of view will impact more than just our prom. In the grand scheme of things--” Enjolras was cut off by Courfeyrac.

“Okayyyy,” he said, throwing himself in-between Enjolras and Grantaire. “So, we had some great suggestions, let’s keep them coming!”

Now Enjolras was staring at Grantaire. Well, glaring was a more appropriate word. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him, smiling mischievously and getting nothing back from Enjolras. His arms were crossed, and Grantaire could tell he was tense from the opposite side of the room. Grantaire hoped his face wasn’t too red, however under the scrutiny of Enjolras’ stare, there was no guarantee to that. 

“We’ll see everyone next meeting,” Combeferre finally said after what felt like an eternity. Grantaire got to his feet, shoving his sketchbook into his bag and dragging his feet to door. Enjolras was still in the front of the room, looking angrily at the ground and venting his anger out on a wadded up piece of paper. It didn’t look he was going anywhere. Grantaire grumbled. He had been hoping Enjolras would leave before him, but it looked like he was waiting for everyone to leave. 

He felt a hand on his arm as he was halfway out of the doorframe, head down and clutching his backpack anxiously. Grantaire turned, smiling nervously when he saw the grim look on Enjolras’ face. “Can we talk, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, making direct eye contact. That was something Grantaire tried to avoid at all costs. 

“Uh, what’s up? Need some condoms?” Grantaire knew he shouldn’t have poked fun, but he couldn’t help it. Enjolras was visibly straining to control his anger. Grantaire hoped he had a therapist or something.

“No,” he said awkwardly, crossing his arms once more. “Look Grantaire, I’m glad you decided to come and it looked like you were having fun, but I need to know, is this whole joking thing going to be a normal, recurring problem?”

Shit, he was going to get asked to leave and never come back. “Maybe?” He answered, his still-nervous smile not doing much to lighten the mood. “Does that bother you?”

Enjolras looked distraught. “I don’t want to alienate you from the group, please believe me. However we’re trying to accomplish real things, and if you aren’t here to take it seriously, then I don’t think you should be here.”

“You literally invited me here yesterday,” Grantaire said dully, no longer attempting to smile. His heart was fluttering nervously and he heard himself wheezing lightly. Shit, Enjolras hated him.

“I know, and I’m not taking that back,” Enjolras said, pushing his hair out of his face. Fuck, he was hot. “But I need you to understand what I’m trying to say. You can joke around all you want outside of the meetings, I’m fine with that, but this club is really important to all of us. We’ve made real differences in this school, it’s easy to see, and we want to keep on improving things. You’ve got to understand that to some degree, right?”

Grantaire shrugged, looking just above Enjolras’ shoulder. “Sure I guess,” he said, his voice cracking. There was no way in hell he was gonna get all sensitive and cry.

“Grantaire, are you okay?” Enjolras asked, most likely noticing his shaking hands. Grantaire was so upset at himself for taking this so seriously. He was getting mildly scolded by a pretty boy, what was the big deal? And now the pretty boy was watching him freak out.

“Totally copacetic, bro,” he said, blinking a few times. “You okay?”

Enjolras nodded his head. “That’s all I wanted to say, you can go ahead and go. Thanks for staying behind.”

Grantaire nodded, fleeing the scene like the coward he was. He leaned back against a random locker, breathing in slowly, trying to analyze the conversation. Enjolras was trying to be really nice about it, he could tell. Grantaire was just being stupid.

And then there was the butterflies he had felt during the meeting. Was he forming a crush on Enjolras, the beautiful boy he had just majorly pissed off? That was a definite yes. 

“You still here?” 

Grantaire jumped up, hitting the back of his head on the locker and cursing. “Yeah, I am.” He looked up, relieved to see it was just Jehan. He seemed like a pretty chill guy.

“Enjolras chew you out?” He asked sympathetically. Grantaire nodded half-heartedly, trying to think of a joke but failing. “I thought you had some good points about the free condoms, we could all use some. Enjolras probably just got sensitive ‘cause he’s a virgin.”

Grantaire choked, wide eyed and alarmed at the route the conversation had taken. Jehan spoke so nonchalantly, but Grantaire could feel his face heating up. Why did Jehan feel the need to share this information? “Don’t worry Grantiare, I’m sure he likes you. He didn’t banish you—Hell, from what I heard he didn’t even raise his voice. So don’t sweat it, buddy.”

Grantaire was nodding along, his mouth dry and his mind empty. Jehan kept prattling away, talking about flowers now, until they parted at the entrance of the school. “Catch you later, R!” Grantaire lifted one hand and waved weakly. His car was where he had left it, even though he wasn’t supposed to park in visitor’s parking. As he suspected, the school was too lazy to tow his car. Either that, or too dumb to realize it had been there all day.

Overall, the new school wasn’t as bad as he expected. Sure, there were those homophobic jerks in his fourth period, but that was to be expected. He had miraculously found a fairly stable group of friends, much more reliable than his “friends” at his old school. He had had Eponine, and that was pretty much it. Grantaire startled—he hadn’t even thought of Eponine the past few days. 

Back at his apartment, locked away in his room, his called her up. “The prodigals bitch has returned?” She cried sarcastically when she picked up the phone. “I never thought I’d live to see this day!”

“I’m glad to hear you’re still alive, Ep. I didn’t think you could make it without me.”

Eponine scoffed on the other end of the line. “I’m invincible and you know it. How are you still alive?”

Grantaire laughed, short and loud. He could imagine Eponine cringing as her speakers blasted his laughter in her ear. “Believe it or not, I’ve actually made some friends.”

“You fucking with me?” She asked, before letting out a yelp. He could hear a faint “don’t take my shit” and louder giggling. 

“R?” The younger voice asked, high pitched and pubescent. It was Gavroche, her shitty little brother.

Grantaire perked up. “Oh shit, it’s the little goblin! Still tormenting your sis?”

“Still crushing on pretty blond boys?” Grantaire went still. How the fuck did Gavroche know? What the fuck?? “I’m going to take that silence as a yes. Haha! Ep, R’s got a crush!”

That was followed by a few shrieks, fumbling, and finally repossession of the phone. Eponine had it once more. “Aw, you’re crushing on someone?” she asked, snickering.

“Put Gavroche back on the phone, I need to know where he got his info.”

“Tough luck, no one in their right mind would hand their possessions over to that miniature demon. I’m going on speaker, that’s the best I can do, pal.” A pause, then he could hear Gavroche. 

“Spill the beans, Gav,” he said gently, his nerves frantic.

He heard Gavroche inhale dramatically, then words began flying at him a mile a minute. “So there’s this high school kid that volunteer tutors at the middle school. He’s kind of a dork and really nerdy, he’s got freckles and everything and I’m pretty sure Ep likes him--”

“Hey, shut it!” She barked, interrupting him.

Gavroche continued. “So anyway, he was talking about a new kid, and I was like “I know him!” And then he was all like “no way!” And I was like, “Yeah! Little bitch that goes by R?” Just kidding, I didn’t say that, the dude’s sensitive. Anyway, he was talking about how you kinda joined their whole tribe thing, and he was talking about them all, and I was like, there’s no fucking way Grantaire hasn’t developed a crush on one of these preps, ‘cause he’s dumb as shit. So I asked about the dudes, and this one guy, Enchilada or something, sounds like your self-depricating ass’s type. And I was right, was I not?”

Grantaire frowned, trying to make sense of the array of words catapulted at him from the hobbit on the other end of the phone. “You may have been correct in a few of your statements,” he admitted dryly, clipping his words short, “But I’m pretty sure ‘Enchilada’ hates me now ‘cause I pissed him off. Oh and by the way Eponine, pretty sure Marius likes this badass gal Cosette, she’s sunshine but crazily intense sometimes. Sorry, hun.”

He could hear Gavroche mocking Eponine and jumping around like a monkey. “No shit?” She asked, sounding less amused now and actually genuinely sad. Grantaire groaned, feeling like an awful friend because he had chosen to direct his aggressions from his own unreciprocated love on his best friend.

“Hey, I’m sure if he got to know you, he’d think you’re great. He’s kinda oblivious though, and also kinda scared of a lot of things. He seems like a nice guy, but honestly? I’ve only known these people two days, so who am I to talk?”

“And yet you’ve got a crush on Enchilada?”

Grantaire huffed. “His name isn’t Enchilada.”

“Well duh,” Eponine said, “who in their right mind would name their kid Enchilada? Anyway, wanna talk about it?”

She was cut off by his mother, fussing at him to take out the trash. Typical. “I’ve gotta go, maybe another time. If you want, I could find a way to introduce you to Marius once I know him a bit better. If it turns out he’s a dick, I’ll notify you.”

“Good luck seducing Enchilada!” She teased before the line went dead. Grantaire smiled weakly, wanting so badly to push Enjolras out of his mind but not being able to. Tomorrow. He’d fix it tomorrow, apologize and everything. He wasn’t going to screw this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around this long! I'd love to hear some feedback, kudos and comments are much appreciated! I'll continue to try to update weekly. Sorry this had been kinda misleading because there's been like no basketball, but I'm gonna mix a little in there soon, no worries!   
> (also happy new year!!!)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I love getting feedback from you guys, so please comment! I'm going to try to update once a week (maybe Saturdays?) and as of now I don't know how long it'll be. I'm going to try to stick with it, because I love these characters. Wish me luck!


End file.
